Adrenaline Rush
by Duchess Razi
Summary: Loosely... very loosely... based off of my gaming experiences with my bud Kyle. x3 The chapters alternate between telling the story of an elite Tournament partnership and their rise to the top, and the relating of the bloody battles that define them.
1. Obliteration

Thanks Atari for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Lyrics are from Metallica, _No Leaf Clover_.

.:: | ::.

_And it feels right this time  
On this crash course we're in the big time  
Pay no mind to the distant thunder  
Beauty fills his head with wonder, boy..._

I duck instinctively as green lasers rip through the empty air where my head had been mere seconds before. And then, before Fatality can juke the beams lower, I'm off, careening madly on a suicidal, zig-zag course towards the blue-clad soldier, firing rockets recklessly.

Explosions boil up from the parched, lifeless earth beneath his feet, sooty orange and bleak gray, and he's blasted backwards as his torso's wrenched free of his hips, spraying me with his hot red blood.

There's no time for celebration, though, because a message has just flashed dangerously in the central left side of my visor, on the built-in HUD: **BiSmArK****!!! couldn't avoid the blast from DEVKiller1's shock combo. **Shit! And now I'm running again, sprinting really, as my health level beeps at me frenetically.** 29! 29! 29! **There. Right there. A softly glowing blue cross, projected from a silvery hologram base. I plunge through it, and my HUD stops blinking about my health, stabilizing at 54.

**o|fatality was obliterated.**

Nice. My respawned teammate Bismark had found the terrible weapon dubbed the Ion Painter. Fatality is now nothing more than a charred and blackened skeleton, tumbling--

The ground around me is being churned up, chewed and gnashed and shredded by bullets. I leap to the side and whip around, firing twice at my attacker. A rocket punches straight into Dev Killer's stomach but the other goes wild, vanishing into the atmosphere. And now my launcher's empty so I pull out my Bio-Rifle, praying desperately, hating the little gun and its globby sludge missiles, still leaping frantically from side to side as Dev sprays his minigun carelessly, coating the area around me liberally with deadly bullets. Spamming me. He's going to hit me, we both know that.

And then as I squeeze off a thick blob of acid-green waste, landing not too far from Dev's feet, his relentless volley finds me, riddling me with his tiny messengers of death. **54- 38- 22- 14- 5 **my HUD shrieks, frantically spitting out my health level, and then it's at zero and I'm gone.

I know Bismark's gotten the notification of my death, 'cause his message quickly flashes up on my HUD as I respawn: **hang in there raz. 3 to go.**

The HUD switches to display his meaning. Red team: 32. Blue team: 28.

Way too close for comfort.

I've reappeared next to an ammo dump for the Lightning Gun, a weapon I despise. It's powerful, right enough, but the firing rate's way too slow. I stick with my starting weapon. A freakin' hand-gun, but at least it shoots fast and true.

**BiSmArK****!!! was carved up by o|fatality's green shaft.**

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. I can hear footsteps from behind me and I whirl, my Assault Rifle screaming out bullets. Fatality doesn't even manage to let loose the neon-green beam of light he so favors, falling soundlessly as his head produces a gruesome explosion.

"Suck on this!"

**BiSmArK****!!! rode DEVKiller1's rocket into oblivion.**

**DEVKiller1 fired his rocket prematurely.**

Nice try, Dev. That launcher's as dangerous to you as it is him if you don't know what you're doing, and kamikaze won't do you any good. See ya in hell.

I'm running again, pausing only to grab the deadly Flak Cannon and its ammunition, sprinting towards the explosions up ahead. Didn't sound good. A sudden message from Bismark only confirms my suspicions: **I need some back-up!**

Leaping off of the roof I'd been racing across, I land square in the middle of a gang-bang. Rocket-fire flares around me before I can react, and I'm now back-to-back with Bismark. He's in bad shape, and Dev and Fatality are both hell-bent on bringing him down. He shoots over and over, armed only with the blue-violet energy attacks of the Shock Rifle, and he's facing Dev's rocket launcher, and Fatality's green-beamed Link Gun--

**o|fatality was fatally enlightened by BiSmArK!!!'s shock rifle.**

GOOD! GOOD! Dev's got the more dangerous gun though, and I know right now, Bismark's likely to keel over if Dev so much as licks him. I'm not about to let that happen. Licking or otherwise. My Flak Cannon's levelled and hot shrapnel's spitting from the muzzle, shrapnel that's damn near impossible to dodge, even as his rockets are hammering into my torso. Firing firing firingfiringfiring--

My HUD doesn't even bother to inform me of Dev Killer's demise. Just: **RED TEAM HAS WON THE MATCH!**

I just kinda stand there, my back still against Bismark's, and send him a message through our HUDs, too weak from the aftermath of my adrenaline rush to speak. **I love you, man.**

**Good.** is all he says, but I know what he means.

The landscape blurs, fades, and then goes black.


	2. Preparation

Thanks Atari for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Lyrics are from Metallica, _No Leaf Clover_.

.:: | ::.

_Says it feels right this time  
Turn around, found new high lights  
Good day to be alive, sir!  
Good day to be alive, he said..._

"We're losin' our touch, Kyle," I mutter sourly. Gone is the sweat-smelling, blood-stained turf we'd been fighting on to the death. We'd been transported to the cold steel holding room that was the entrance to what the teams commonly refer to as the Bunkers. I'm still wearing the form-fitting, red-and-white armor I'd been equipped with, but I had already removed the visor that supported my all-important HUD, moments after Dev had fallen for the last time. I turn it over in my gloved hands, studying it as if this sheet of tinted starglass is the reason we're being fragged more and more often on the battlefield. My game name's emblazoned in crimson on the front, near the top: **Duchess.:.****Razi**. Kyle's taken his off, too, and is running his fingertips over his own calling card: **BiSmArK****!!!**.

"Naw, we're not," he disagrees, stripping his hands of the heavy leather gloves. "Our opponents are just getting better." He flashes me a quick smile, one that seems incredibly natural on his tanned face, and indicates my visor. "Couldn't you think of a more creative name, Razi?"

"No," I growl stiffly, raking a hand through my hair. It's elbow-length and dark, a chocolately color like my eyes, and the crimson dye that enlivens the bangs framing my face and has a couple streaks in the rest of my hair is beginning to fade, which annoys me. "I like this name. Leave it alone." Tucking my visor under my arm, I stalk out of the holding room into banks of lockers, finding mine and beginning to peel off my leather-and-steel armor.

"Stop that," Kyle scolds, hastening after me and trying to pull the armor back on. "Are you wearing anything beneath it?" The question, I know, is more of jealousy than an empathetic fretting over my modesty.

"Yes, I am, sludge-for-brains, and there's nobody else in here anyway." I get the upper half off and throw it at him, flaunting my half-nakedness. A black bra, and the remainder of my armor is all I'm wearing now, and I notice with interest that my teammate, of the vicious gun and coarse black hair, is beginning to turn slightly pink. "Calm down."

"Someone could come in," he points out, rather loudly. "Another match could end any moment now."

"Uh-huh." DEVKiller1 and o|fatality don't use this Bunker, and for good reason: the blue gladiators and the red ones don't mingle well outside of the arena. Bad feelings sometimes get carried out of the ring. "Good for the other match." Being deliberately contrary now, I pull my leggings off and throw those at Kyle, too. They're soaked with sweat and smeared with blood, both mine and that of our opponents, but that's not why he looks so chagrined.

"Get out of your armor, Bismark my love. We have things to do."

He knows very well what I mean, entendre aside, and as I slink nonchalantly off to the showers, I know which finger he's holding up after me.

.:: | ::.

Some two hours later, we've both gotten ourselves all nice and clean and prettified. I've got my silver jewelry-- rings, choker and ankh, long tasselled earrings-- and tight black apparel, he's wearing baggy black pants and a coaly T-shirt. He's got a steel necklace, too, and the glasses he's got now, in combination with his coarse dark goatee, make him look a bit like a Beatnik. Bismark the Beatnik. Catchy.

Neither of us look particularly menacing, really, but when you make a living blowing people's asses apart and getting yours treated in kind, you really don't mind so much about physical menacibility.

Our manager's waiting for us. He's not a bad guy. A bit on the geeky side, maybe, but we've made him pretty damn rich, so a certain level of geekiness is permitted. Lots of money equals who the hell cares if you're a nerd?

"Hey," he greets us as we sweep into his office, side-by-side. He wears glasses, too, a similar make to Kyle's slim pair, and he's impeccably dressed in a white button-down shirt and freshly pressed black slacks. I've only seen him in grunge once, really. I should've taken a picture.

"Whatcha got for us, Marco?"

"You do know," he tells me conversationally, "that in the Counter Strike arenas I could kick both of your asses before breakfast?"

"You could try," Kyle laughs. "But this is the Unreal Tournament arena, Markie-oh, so it really doesn't matter."

Our manager makes a _pfft_sound, giving my teammate a remarkably dangerous look. He scratches at his pale-copper hair idly before deciding to forgive his wayward gladiator, and pushes us a manila folder across the desk. "We have here," he announces in a slightly more serious tone, "the layout of a brand-new map. _Icebound_, I believe they're calling it. A fortress carved entirely of ice, complete with Arctic waters that won't give you much forgiveness if you slip and fall." He pauses as Kyle and I examine the pictures. It's genuinely beautiful, all glittering ice and frost-covered waters, but it looks like one of the most dangerous arenas we've ever fought in. "The team you'll be fighting is known as the Immolators." He passes us another folder, and then inquires, "have you two come up with a suitable team name _yet_?"

We shake our heads, and even manage to look suitably guilty.

"Do it," he orders, like he's done during every briefing for the past eighteen months. "Then run it by me." He taps the new folder ominously. "Have fun with the Immolators, boys'n'girls. There's three of them, so I'll need to get out a Bot for you. A damn good Bot. These fellas are pretty freakin' near undefeated."

We admire the snapshots obediently. A hefty female GMH, a deceptively unfinished-looking robot, and a second GMH, a huge male who could probably use me'n'Kyle for toothpicks. No problem.

"You know," Marco complains, "if you two freaks would just hire on another team member, I wouldn't _need _to work my ass off trying to get a good Bot to supplement you."

"Or," Kyle suggests sweetly, "you could stop booking us matches with teams of three-four-five people."

Marco's face slowly begins to flush, and we grab up the folders and run for our lives.


	3. Immolation

Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Lyrics are from Metallica, No Leaf Clover.

.:: ::.

_Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel  
Is just a freight train coming your way  
Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel  
Is just a freight train coming your way..._

Marco was wrong. It's not called Icebound. It's Ice_tomb_.

I appear in the middle of a vast glittering-ice hallway with a blaze of scarlet light-- sheer white walls stretch up to a vaulted crystal ceiling, and frigid waters seethe beneath their thin frosty crusts. This place is as beautiful as a wrought-silver blade... And just as deadly. There's a slowly rotating rocket-launcher at the far end of the corridor, flanked by enticing red-and-gray boxes of ammunition; throwing caution to the winds, I make a dash for it.

Almost immediately a ball of blue-violet energy the size of my head rips forth, pounding into my torso, smacking me off my feet and hard into a glistening wall. A hulking gene-boosted gladiator is just around the corner, her Shock Rifle frantically discharging. Fiery orbs crash all around me, and not a few find their marks-- I'm whipped into the air again just as I reach for the rocket launcher, and this time I'm thrown into one of the frost-laced pools.

My HUD begins to scream at me soundlessly, great chunks of my health ripped away by unforgiving waters. Down from 63 I plummet to **41- 28- 15- 3-**

**Duchess.:.Razi forgot to come up for air.**

I respawn atop a bridge wrought of fine-spun ice, greeted by Bismark's furious message: **watch it!!! no stupid mistakes!!! sudden death!!!**

Shit.

Sudden Death, in our world, means one thing, and one thing only. The rules have been tweaked. Each gladiator has only three lives, and when those three are gone, she's out. Nine kills was all it would take to win this battle... Or to lose.

**Red Team: 1 Blue Team: 2**

Double shit.

Footsteps behind me-- I whirl around and fire a grenade from my Assault Rifle, only to find myself face-to-face with a heart-stopping blond male in red armor. TRIPLE shit!

Without pausing to think, the Bot and I hurl ourselves off the bridge as the grenade detonates behind us-- Friendly Fire is always on during these showdowns. _Always. _The five points or so we take upon landing are nothing compared to what my rookie mistake could have done.

And now shrapnel's shredding the air around us, whistling and shrieking and burning red-hot, interspersed with wicked blue-violet lances, because we've landed directly between the GMH I'd encountered earlier and a lean sea-green android, both of which are emptying their magazines on us, and the Bot's returning fire manically with his Minigun, spraying bullets wantonly into the pair, whirling with his finger clenched on the trigger to coat both blue gladiators with his death sentence, and I've opened my translocator as my HUD wails **76- 48- 19- **because this is too good an opportunity to miss--

**xxxxxCRUSH was telefragged by Duchess.:.Razi.**

And I'm off again, vanishing in a crimson flare of light and reappearing behind a pair of softly glowing blue crosses, absorbing them both as my HUD stops flashing and steadies at 69, firing my translocator once more and then materializing next to my Bot teammate, who by now's taken down the Flak Cannon-wielding android. We exchange a triumphant sort of look, his eyes concealed behind thick dark glasses, and then take off as the message appears hatefully

**BiSmArK!!! rode ikillza!'s rocket to oblivion.**

**Red Team: 3 Blue Team: 3**

I killed myself once, in that water incident-- which was a negative frag-- which means we really have four-- and so one of the Immolators is pretty damn close to being knocked out. I bring up the scoreboard on my HUD as the Bot and I sprint, trying to ferret out the blue gladiators, trusting that he'll alert me to danger as I skim the stats.

**Name Kills Deaths**

**BiSmArK!!! 2 1**

**ikillza! 1 1**

**Tulmuk 1 1**

**RenoirX 1 1**

**Duchess.:.Razi 0 1**

**xxxxxCrush 0 2**

Crush. The big female. Time to die, bitch.

Rockets suddenly explode all around us, fired heavily from that green cyborg who's whirled a corner and come face-to-face with us-- he's smart, leaping from side to side as he fires, and I'm not good enough with my translocator to pin him if he's strafing, so I grab my Assault Rifle and discharge a grenade that clanks tinnily off a wall and bounces to the android's feet and I'm ducking for cover, dragging the blond Bot with me as I hurl another capsule over my shoulder, and now the cyborg's turning to flee but it's far too late because it sounds like the world is exploding as those babies go off--

**Tulmuk tried to juggle Duchess.:.Razi's grenade.**

Now Bismark's come careening around the corner that Tulmuk appeared from, sprinting through the thick smoke and scattered wires recklessly because there's a fuckin' HUGE ball of blackish-violet-silverish energy wrapped in electricity that strikes the wall behind him and flares out in a massive explosion, licking at his heels, and now that big red-clad GMH bitch is striding purposefully after him and ready to fire another Shock Combo, and Renoir's sprung out from behind the jagged ice-shelf that had shielded us and firing madly with his trusty Minigun, muzzle blazingblazingblazing and arresting the stupid Bluesie's attack--

**xxxxxCrush was mowed down by RenoirX's Minigun.**

And _now_, she's out.

It comes without warning, a sudden barrage of wicked grayish torpedoes, thick black smoke and ugly orange flame, and all I have time to register is that sea-green android standing behind us and firing suicidally because

**BiSmArK!!! rode Tulmuk's rocket to oblivion.**

**Duchess.:.Razi rode Tulmuk's rocket to oblivion.**

**Tulmuk fired his rocket prematurely.**

I reappear painfully close to where I'd fallen, close enough to run in and gather up our fallen weapons, close enough to receive a message over my HUD from Renoir: **I got your back. **The Bot had managed to avoid Tulmuk's mad rampage, but he's unsteady on his artificial feet, and I doubt he'll be much good as backup.

My rocket-launcher's locked cocked'n'loaded, and from up ahead I hear an enraged roar of pain, and Renoir and I are sprinting again and nearly run straight into Bismark who's once again coming from the opposite direction, fleeing frantically 'cause he's only got one life left, and without even thinking the Bot and I are providing coverfire, pounding rockets and spitting bullets, and Bismark's grabbed a pair of blue health-crosses and joined us with lightning tearing from the yellow rifle he holds, and with a furious roar of pain

**ikillza! rode BiSmArK!!!'s lightning.**

And the three of us are staying close together, at the junction of two mercilessly glittering ice hallways, rocket-launcher Minigun Lightning Rifle, Bismark and me with only one life left and Renoir with two, and only two more deaths needed to win this goddamn thing, but now the opposing team is being a lot more careful, helluva lot more careful, and there's a sudden spitfire of white light and then

**RenoirX's cranium was made extra-crispy by ikillza's Lightning Rifle.**

FUCK! I whirl around to kill the mother but Bismark moves first and returns the favor on Killza, and then it's him and me and the final Immolator and Renoir's off god-knows-where doing god-knows--

--and hot shrapnel's flying through the air and suddenly Bismark's down with jagged chunks of rock stuck in his brain and Tulmuk's coming after me now-- I'm dodging frantically from side to side but it's too late dammit and I'm down too--

--and then that Bot, that fake unliving wonderful Bot's Minigun chatters, and the sea-green android explodes into a spray of violet fluid, and the match is over.

Our world fades to black.


	4. Reconciliation

Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series (and Miranon for pointing that out!). Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Miranon and Poddy, thanks for the reviews. =D Lyrics are from Metallica, _No Leaf Clover_.

.:: ::.

_Don't__ it feel right like this  
All the pieces fall to his wish  
Suck up for that quick reward boy  
Suck up for that quick reward they said..._

"I saw you making eyes at that Bot."

I blink, dumbfounded, and turn to stare at my partner. "_Huh?_"

"That Bot. RenoirX. The Remus model. I saw you checking him out." Kyle's expression is decidedly defensive, and more than a little injured. I stare a bit longer, and then break into helpless laughter. He stiffens, looking extremely offended, and stalks off into the Bunker, his helmet gripped irritably in both hands.

My legs give out beneath me and I collapse onto the cold concrete floor, still laughing madly, tears beginning to trickle down my face. Dear Lord, adrenaline is still ripping through my body. If someone appeared next to me right now, I'd probably laugh so hard at the pretty red lights that I'd pass out.

After a moment or two I regain my composure, struggle to my feet, and wander into the Bunkers. Kyle's sitting huffily on an unpadded steel bench, struggling with his tight-fitting red-and-white armor. Yeah, hand-eye coordination isn't really his thing off the battlefield. I watch for a moment, then pull my chestplate off and toss it at him. It's damp with blood and sweat, but that's the norm with these friggin' tournaments.

The piece hits him in the face and I'm forced to start laughing again, great sobbing laughs as my edge finally begins to wear off. I sigh, run my hands through my hair, and watch my teammate wrestle with his uniform. "Need help there?"

"No!" he grunts sulkily, and promptly falls backwards off the bench, entangled in faded-red and off-white leather. He just kinda sprawls there blankly, looking pained. An unhappy squirm knocks his helmet from the bench and it clonks off of his head to land at my feet.

I'm laughing again, unable to help myself, and he struggles to his feet, kicking off his leggings, and stalks haughtily towards the showers. "See you around."

Oh, crap. I've gone and dented his pride. I release a heavy sigh, bundling my armor and helmet into the locker marked **Duchess.:.****Razi**. Then I put Kyle's stuff away, since he's neglected to do that. Clad only in my undergarments, still raking pale fingers through my tangled hair, I pad delicately towards the vast white-tile chamber that houses the showers.

It's pleasant in there, always steamy-hot, thick warm mist curling lazily around you as you step through the arched glass doors. Huge fluffy towels, the pale-red and stained-white of our team colors, are neatly folded at the far end of the room-- I'm convinced the goddamn things come out of our paychecks every match. The walls are off-white, of course, as are the slippery ceramic tiles on the floor, and that faded red dances over the walls with intricate, arcane patterns. There's all sorts of heady-smelling shampoos and lotions, and the shower-stalls aren't _stalls _so much as they are small freakin' rooms. We gladiators have just ended a grueling match, dammit. We _deserve _a nice shower. None of this two-by-two metal cubicle crap.

There're about twenty showers in here, and half a dozen currently in use. I make my way towards the one farthest from the door, shedding what's left of my clothes as I go. My jealous teammate always uses the same one.

There's very nice locks on the doors, sturdy little things, but Kyle broke the one on this shower long ago. We'd just lost a match against a Skaarj-Hybrid team, and that had made him somewhat unhappy. I push the door open carefully and slip inside.

His back is to me, and he's just soaking in the hot water, the heated rain carving rivulets in the dirt and sweat that cake him. Some moron decided long ago that these shower-stalls would look _real_ nice if they were decorated like hotel rooms, and so a wall-mounted lamp veils us with its amber light, and a heavy desk that can't be real mahogany displays an intimidating selection of shampoos, conditioners, soaps and body-washes. Moving cat-silent, I pour liquid soap into my hands and then gently run them down Kyle's back.

He flinches and half-turns, surveying me in a judgemental manner. I don't say anything, the shower's fingers enhancing the red dye that had been fading from my hair, and softly trace soap-laden hands over his shoulders and back.

He growls softly, not unhappily, and takes two steps backwards to press against me, reaching around to drift his fingers over the small of my back. I bite his shoulder in response, sliding soapy hands around to his chest. Tattoos decorate his bare flesh, something I don't find unattractive.

His breathing quickens as I bite harder and then let go, dragging teeth and tongue over his collarbone, to his neck.

The hot water's caressing us both, whispering along our bodies and spangling our faces with false tears. Kyle turns to face me, his big hands sliding down my arms, stroking my hips, gently tracing up my breastbone. I reach a foam-lathered hand up and carefully close my fingers around his chin, pulling his face down until his mouth finds mine. Our kiss is gentle at first, wary, but then his teeth close around my lower lip and his fingers slide back down to grasp my hips and pull me against him.

The assorted bottles are knocked carelessly from the desk as he shoves me against it roughly, bending me against the swollen wood, his tongue ravaging my mouth. My leg slips up to wrap around his waist, and with an animalistic snarl he pushes me onto the desk and climbs atop me, gazing down at me with dark half-lidded eyes. I groan my agreement softly, dragging his face down for another demanding kiss.

One hand is splayed against the wood at my hip, supporting him, and the other slides slowly over my stomach, rubbing pale skin possessively. He nips at my jaw, licks it sensuously, and then with a thick moan he pushes into me, and we are lost.

.:: ::.

We make our way into Marco's office three or four hours later, in our usual all-black ensembles, but the moment our manager looks at us he can see something's up.

"You're glowing," he observes suspiciously.

I blink at him twice, and then extend my arm and examine it closely. "_Really_ now? Strange. You'd think I'd notice something like that, but wow..."

Marco impales me with his trademark Glare of Doom. "You know what I mean, kid. It's like the I-just-got-some-from-James-Hetfield glow."

"You leave him out of this," I order peevishly. I never should've told Marco about my obsession with the Metallica vocalist. Never ever never. Never. With a side of adrenaline pills.

The red-head grins calmly, then wanders back to the matter at hand. "Your next match, boysies and girloes, is in Inferno." The manila folder he passes us has slick glossy photos of a thoroughly terrible-looking arena, an iron-and-granite fortress looming high above a lake of unforgiving red-molten lava. "Don't fall, my pretties. You have a team name yet?"

"And the other team?" Kyle demands, ignoring the question.

"That," Marco states, "is a surprise." He smiles, infuriatingly, and reaches out to pat my teammate's cheek. "Surprises are good for you." And then he ushers us out of the office, and engages the deadbolt behind us.


	5. Adjustation

Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Miranon, in answer to your question, it's just Duchess and Bismark. Well, until now, anyway. Lyrics are from Metallica, _No Leaf Clover_.

I might've gotten a couple weapon messages wrong. Don't kill me, I was on the phone until one a.m. u u;

By the way: any questions about the story or, well, whatever, can be addressed to raesvampirethemasquerade.com.

.:: ::.

_Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel  
Is just a freight train coming your way  
Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel  
Is just the freight train coming your way...  
It's coming your way  
It's coming your way...  
Here comes!_

With a blur of crimson light, I find myself at the topmost level of a skull-like fortress, looking down at roiling magma far below. A message blinks ominously on my HUD, in the bold red print that means it's from the team manager.

**I've gotten sick of your stalling. -=DarkChild=- is in.**

I stare at that message, completely baffled, and then below it appears a short comment from Bismark, which means he's gotten it too: **wtf??**

I hear rapid, heavy footsteps behind me and whirl, Assault Rifle ready--

**Duchess.:.****Razi rode LordOfU's lightning.**

DAMMIT, Marco! How do you expect me to concentrate when you're busy sending cryptic messages?! I've respawned beside a rocket-launcher and I scoop it up, dumping ammo into the red-and-gray killer. Take this, blue bitches. The Duchess is armed and ready to blow your sorry asses to Liandri Corp.

I take off at a sprint, wicked green missiles being exchanged in volleys up ahead. There's a sudden discharge that can only be from a Flak Cannon, and

**jkgsebhj**** was perforated by -=DarkChild=-'s flak.**

Oh, fuck. Now I know what Marco meant: Bismark'n I have got a teammate. A real, human, teammate. Fuck... Ing... HELL.

Feet pound behind me and I whirl, enraged, my adrenaline levels suddenly skyrocketing from sheer emotion, and I've slammed the code into my HUD and as the announcer growls a warning to the other players I go Berserk, wicked red-orange beams of light streaking around me as I unload rockets on the stupid mime that'd tried to sneak up behind me and her body is ripped to shreds and I'm still firing firing firing because the blood is gouting and gushing and staining my visor and splattering my armor and now there's only charred scraps of flesh and

There's someone else before me because I've been running without realizing it and rockets churn up the earth around him and rip holes through his gut and there's blood hot and clean and fresh and my health is flashing at me furiously but neither of those two have had a chance to fire so there must've been more and

I've respawned, and now I'm wondering how many times I did that while in the grip of adrenaline-induced madness. I'm holding dual Assault Rifles, and I know I've respawned because the message still lingers on my HUD:

**Duchess.:.****Razi fired her rocket prematurely.**

Oops.

I take off again being more careful this time and from the opposite end of the corridor I'm following, all granite and iron, lopes a gladiator dressed in red-and-white, heavy Flak Cannon gripped negligently in one hand, **-=DarkChild=- **burned into his helmet, moving swiftly but with a strangely seductive grace of power and cruelty. And from behind him appears a blue soldier, sprinting, snarling, Lightning Rifle aimed for Child's head and before I can even move to fire my Assault Rifles Child spins gracefully on one foot and squeezes the trigger and blasts the other gladiator apart and then there's footsteps behind me and Child calmly slings the Cannon over his shoulder and as I begin to riddle that stupid mime with 5.56 mm white lightning spits from the dead gladiator's rifle crackling over my left shoulder and the mime falls with her head aflame and Child calmly steps past me reequipping his Flak Cannon and firing lazily at the mime's corpse...

**Say thank you, lady Duchess, **he communicates, moving gracefully out of the corridor.

**Red Team: 57  Blue Team: 51**

**Score Limit: 60**

Maybe he can afford to be negligent but I'm not hanging my paycheck on that thank you so I'm running again with my handguns at the ready and up ahead there's a massive explosion because

**Sereniti rode BiSmArK!!!'s rocket to oblivion.**

and I've caught up to Bismark and we're running side-by-side as the HUD warns us that jkgsebhj took his revenge on that DarkChild and now all three blue-soldiers have appeared from around the corner but that's okay 'cause we only need two of them and Bismark's pounding rockets at their feet but all three of them are jumping and strafing but blood's gouting from their wounds as the Gen Mo'Kai sprays us with the deadly pellets of her Minigun and my health is screaming lower and lower and Bismark's still shooting madly and

**BiSmArK!!! was mowed down by jkgsebhj's Minigun.**

**jkgsebh**** rode BiSmArK!!!'s rocket to oblivion.**

I'm pumping the mime and the human with my Assault Rifles but I can't do it I can't do it goddammit because my health is flashing flashing flashing with their Flak Cannon and the Gen Mo'Kai's fallen Minigun and now I'm down to the single digits and then I see him appear silently behind the bluesies and pull the trigger and

**LordOfU was shredded by -=DarkChild=-'s shrapnel.**

And the announcer growls the end of the match and my eyes lock resentfully with Child's as our world fades.


	6. Explanation

Thanks Epic for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had, and Phil for being... Well... My own personal depression. Lyrics are from Metallica, _Master of Puppets_.

Oh, and the e-mail address I gave last time got screwed over by the HTML thing... The 'at' symbol goes between 'raes' and 'vampire'.

Miranon: Haha, yeah, the dual Assault Rifles thing was a mistake. =D The story's supposed to be 2k3, but since I've been playing waaay too much 2k4 lately it's sort of, uh, 2k3 and a half. xD;; My bad.

.:: ::.

_End of passion play, crumbling away   
I'm your source of self-destruction   
Veins that pump with fear, sucking darkest clear   
Leading on your death's construction   
Taste me you will see--   
More is all you need!  
You're dedicated to   
How I'm killing you..._

The three of us materialize with the familiar spiral of crimson light in the cold concrete holding room. Kyle and I remove our helmets grimly, sharing icy looks; DarkChild ignores us both, moving with his peculiar flowing gait into the Bunker. After a moment my partner and I follow, stiff not only with the residue of battle but with resentment. We were handling things just fine on our _own_, dammit, and that Bot had worked out as a third team member, so why the _hell_ did we need this guy?!

DarkChild has already stripped of his armor by the time we reach the lockers, and is pulling on heavy black clothing that looks like it's made of freakin' burlap. He's rail-thin, and his skin pale and features delicate, too delicate for him to be an adult. His hair is dyed ink-black, with bangs framing the sides of his fae-like face and offsetting his eyes, which seem to shift from a honey-brown to a thick, dark coffee as he regards us.

The heavy jacket he wears is decorated with half a dozen belts and buckles across the chest, and he carefully shrugs into a long, equally heavy-looking black trenchcoat. A hat is pulled low over his face, pitch-black, interrupted only by five blood-red letters across the front. I can't read them from this distance. I don't care.

"What," I snarl, voice low and throaty, "are you _doing_?"

"I'm changing," he answers. There's no inflection whatsoever in his voice, which is soft, light, containing faint echoes of distance. Fingers decorated with broad silver rings slip into the pocket of his coat, extracting a thin cigarette and silver lighter. Moving carefully, almost painstakingly, he lights the paper, pushing it between his lips.

"You haven't showered yet." I can feel Kyle moving forward slightly, close to my side. This kid wasn't welcome here, and we both wanted to make sure he knew it. "You should do that first."

He makes no response to my advice, looking us up and down with a careful eye. "You might want to get out of your armor. It looks hot."

Something about the way he pronounces 'hot' bothers me to no end. He enunciates the final consonant, turning it into a practiced click. "It's my own damn business if my armor's too hot!" He's right, though, and that annoys me just as much. The leather clings to me like a second skin, one that's as always weeping sweat and blood. God help me, though, I am not about to change with this dark child in here.

He seems to sense this, and tilts his head to the left with that peculiar carefulness that seems to infuse him. "Do you want me to go?"

I can feel Kyle tense with dislike beside me. This is our team, our partnership, always has been, and by God it always _will _be. We're a two-person team, and we _don't _need anybody else shoving in. Least of all some Gothic chain-smoking sixteen-year-old crap.

DarkChild's smile is reluctant, and as it fades his face bleeds away all emotion, blank and clean. "All right." He pronounces the final 't' the same way he did with 'hot', and irrational frustration boils up inside of me. Without waiting for me to recover, the kid pivots gracefully and leaves. And now I understand why he moves with that strangely feminine sway: the heavy trenchcoat would surely catch his foot and trip him otherwise.

I hope he falls flat on his pretty face.

Kyle and I maintain a stony silence for several long moments, and then as one we begin to strip our armor. "Jesus Christ," Kyle mutters sourly. "What on earth did that kid do to get thrown into this Tournament?"

I was wondering the same thing.

.:: ::.

_"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, immasculate, decapitate! IMMOLATE, EVISCERATE, EMASCULATE, DECAPITATE!"_

_Tears are streaming down my face, hot and clean, cutting through the blood that masks me, and the words are torn from my throat faster and faster, louder and louder._

_"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate. Immolate, eviscerate, immasculate, decapitate! IMMOLATE, EVISCERATE, EMASCULATE, DECAPITATE!"_

_The fire is racing over their mangled bodies, and shrieks of mortal agony are ripping through the tortured air. Hands are clawing at their own ruined shells, and I heft the thick wood-axe as I step forward, still chanting in a tormented sing-song, raising the heavy blade over my head. The writhing souls on the floor no longer register me in their bloodfilled eyes, and I smash the axe down, once, twice, three times, four, as the shrieks are abruptly silenced. Laughter bubbles up within me, dark, filthy, and I open my mouth to let it spill out, mad laughter, raging laughter, laughter of the pits of Hell._

_"Immolate, eviscerate, emasculate, decapitate! I'll teach you! I'll teach you ALL! You laughed at me! You mocked me! I was a play-thing for you! ALL of you!"_

_And raging screams explode from my throat, whipping the axe through the air to cleft their dead, flaming bodies over and over again, heedless of the scorching heat, heedless of the hungry flame, reveling in the eruptions of blood from their sorry corpses. "You hurt me. You hurt me. You laughed at me. I was nothing. I was nothing! I was _Razi_. I was Razi! Razi had no feelings-- did she?! Razi didn't care if you tormented her-- did she?! No! No! NO! She didn't care! She didn't care! SHE DIDN'T CAAARE!"_

_And the sirens race closer through the city streets, and I collapse on my hands and knees and cry._

.:: ::.

Kyle and I move slowly, loathingly towards Marco's office, both of us ready to tear his skin from his face. I'd been thrown into this thing for multiple accounts of manslaughter. Kyle for multiple assault-and-batteries. We could definitely handle one geeky manager.

DarkChild is slumped lifelessly against the far wall as we enter, eyes drifting over to us dully. Marco looks apprehensive, obviously anticipating our anger. "Hey Razi, Kyle," he says quickly, cutting off anything we might have been ready to say. "You've met Philip Mexur, I know... Nice fellow... He's the newest member of your team. Two partners just isn't cutting it anymore. Most of the teams out there have five or six people. I'll be happy with three, though, so don't get sticks up your asses."

"We can just quit, and you can get a new team," Kyle offers flatly.

"No, as a matter of fact, you can't. You're in here for twenty-four years, Mr. Sedgley, and Razi there's in it for life. You're doing as I say." Marco looks fiercely defiant, but the slight tremor in his hands says otherwise. "And I say Phil's on the team."

"We don't have to like it."

"No, and I never said you had to." Marco seems to sense a possible foothold, and leaps at it. "But this boy performs wonders in the arena, and we're the only team with less than three people. No, you don't have to like it at all, but he's on the team, and that's final." He pauses for just a split second before plowing on. "Do you have a team name?"

There's something about the way he says the usual question that warns us. Kyle and I exchange a split-second glance, and then I state, "Nagaraja."

The coppery-haired manager looks more than a little startled, but Kyle manages to control his emotions. Philip stares ahead blankly. I've decided, on a whim, to name the team after the flesh-eating vampires of the Masquerade. Kyle and I haven't discussed this, at all, but like _hell _we're gonna let Marco name our team!

"All right." Marco slowly types the name into his state-of-the-art PC, as if waiting for me to laugh and say, "No, no! I was kidding! We're named Marco's Bonerenders!" When that doesn't come, he clicks 'accept' with almost tangible reluctance. Turning away from the computer, he fishes out them damn manila folders, passing them across the desk to me and Kyle. Phil pushes slowly off the wall to join us, face flatly void of emotion. I unobtrusively shift the photographs so he can't see them. Stupid kid.

"Next arena's called Oceanic," he tells us. I study the photos briefly; it's pretty straight-forward. Underwater corridors of reinforced steel, wicked sharks and tropical fish darting past the starglass windows. Nothing tricky here. "It's quite tame, especially compared to your last two battlefields." He taps an image that shows greenish mist rising from the grates in the floor. "As far as we can tell, this residue is harmless."

"As far as we can tell..." Kyle mimicks sourly.

Marco wisely chooses to ignore that. He's already pissed us off enough. "The opposing team" and he indicates the other envelope "is called the Warmongers. They don't seem better than you three, so you shouldn't have much of a problem."

All three of them are Gen Mo'Kai. No problem. The death-masks are sexy.

"Have fun," Marco tells us, and begins to usher all three of us out of his office. Then he pauses. "And please... Keep the team-killing to a minimum."

Kyle and I stare venomously at him, and he hurriedly closes the door.


End file.
